


fireworks

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Courfeyrac being a happy sweetheart, Grantaire being a skilled motherfucker, Jealous!Enjolras, M/M, No Poultry Was Harmed In The Making Of This Fic, Pining!Enjolras, Piningjolras, aka enjolras gets it bad and hates the world, does anyone want to buy some fireworks?, lots of swearing, realisations of feelings after other party has started dating someone else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Grantaire's not late,” Courfeyrac looks like the cat that ate the canary. “He’s on a date.”</p><p>The sheet of paper in Enjolras' hand promptly slips out and falls to the floor.</p><p>“What?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	fireworks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bottleredhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/gifts).



> Written for [this](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com/post/52623493953/i-just-want-a-fic-where-courfeyrac-unable-to) prompt on tumblr, made by Enjolraspermitsit aka bottleredhead
> 
>  
> 
> _I just want a fic where Courfeyrac, unable to stand the thought of his friend sad, keeps setting up dates for Grantaire with his various acquaintances (because hello, Courf knows everyone.) Then, when Grantaire starts actually enjoying himself, Enjolras gets cutely jealous because he doesn’t have R’s whole attention anymore._
> 
>  
> 
> _Then, bam, they kiss and R forgets about everyone else and Enjolras is happy because R has eyes for no one other than him. (◡‿◡✿)_

 

”This was all part of my plan,” Courfeyrac will say later, and no-one will believe him, because _really._

But that is, of course, not how it starts. No, it starts with a cache of fireworks and a really hot summer-day.

“I have no idea what to do with these,” Grantaire tells him, meaning the fireworks and not the summer days, though sometimes it can be hard to deal with those as well.

“It’s just fireworks,” Courfeyrac tells him, and this is the moment where it starts, because this is the moment where Courfeyrac realises that Grantaire _looks sad._

It may turn into a bit of a… he wants to say hobby. It may be an obsession as well. It’s just… Courfeyrac loves his friends. As in, would die and kill for them, loves. All of them, every single one, from the red wisps of Feuilly’s hair to Marius freckles, to Combeferre’s glasses and Enjolras’ fondness for Skrillex.

Okay, so that last one isn’t true. But Courfeyrac still loves his friends, and that includes Grantaire.

Grantaire who is _sad_ , in a way not even Jehan is sad, because Jehan gets his moments where he can hardly speak, and it’s painful, but he’s Jehan and he’ll bounce back, but _Grantaire._

“Show me that trick with the coin?” Courfeyrac asks him, and Grantaire obliges, flinging it in the air and making it disappear, but his smile isn’t genuine.

“Let’s see who can stand on their hands the longest!” he declares, and Grantaire wins, because Grantaire is good at standing on his hands.

“Ignore him,” he tells Grantaire after Enjolras’ has yet again scowled and glared at Grantaire. But Grantaire doesn’t ignore Enjolras, of course he doesn’t.

“Play me that tune?” he’ll practically demand, because music can make anyone smile. Grantaire smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“He doesn’t mean it like that,” he’ll say when Enjolras’ cutting remark had hit a bit too close to home, and that’s the moment that Courfeyrac realises that Enjolras _knows_ , and that he hasn’t approached Grantaire about it for his own reasons, and Grantaire is pale and shaken, so the next time he sees him he may end up shouting a bit.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, JUST GO ON A DATE WITH THIS FRIEND OF MINE WILL YOU??”

Okay, so it is a bit aggressive, and they may be out on the open street, and people may be staring at them in shock, including a mother who jumps and nearly lets go of her pram complete with baby (she doesn’t though, the baby’s fine!), but Courfeyrac loves his friends and he just doesn’t want to see anyone sad!

“Um, alright,” Grantaire says, because he’s probably too scared not to.

Courfeyrac will take it.

 

 

*

 

 

Enjolras storms into the meeting exactly five minutes and six seconds late, which is so not on.

“Is everyone here?” he asks Combeferre before he’s hardly even inside.

“Bossuet is working, so he won’t be here,” Combeferre says, as Enjolras eyes rakes over his friends present. Something’s wrong.

“Where’s Grantaire?”

Combeferre shrugs. “He’s probably just late.”

“He’s not late,” Courfeyrac looks like the cat that ate the canary. “He’s on a date.”

The sheet of paper in his hand promptly slips out, and _it’s on purpose_ , Enjolras will later insist to himself, which is also why he doesn’t move to get it up again.

“What?”

The grin is still in place. “A _date_. He’s got a date.”

“A date.”

“Yes.”

“Grantaire has a date.”

Courfeyrac winks at him. “You heard it here first.”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Okay. Well. If everyone’s accounted for then, can we begin?”

It’s an hour later that Grantaire bursts in through the doors, scowling at Courfeyrac, demanding _what the hell_ , and _how did you think that would work,_ and, for some reason, _teletubbies, SERIOUSLY??_

Enjolras won’t ask. He does surprise himself by smiling slightly as Grantaire moves to leave later on, when most of them have filed out or passed out, as they are wont to do.

He’s probably not as surprised as Grantaire, who looks almost _scared_ , and that shouldn’t be… that isn’t… but then he smiles back, shortly, tentatively, still with a look of confusion in his eyes, before hurrying out of the door.

He doesn’t think much about it. Feuilly wants to break into a factory farming chickens to take pictures of their conditions, and Combeferre is fretting over security issues, and Joly is convinced that they’ll all catch salmonella or worse, and Jehan is making sad poems about the sadness of being a cow or something, and he gets a bit distracted.

It’s only a few days after that, that Grantaire is yet again absent.

“Hockey-game!” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras thinks _oh, that must be where Bahorel is as well,_ except Bahorel is at home resting because he was doing reconnaissance at said factory farm before, and everyone else is here and Grantaire just isn’t the type to go to hockey alone.

Not that he isn’t allowed to have friends outside of their group. Enjolras is just fairly certain that he doesn’t, because he’s… well, he’s Grantaire. And he keeps hanging around here.

Then again, maybe he’s only hanging around here because of this… this _crush_ of his. But he does seem to care for the others. He let Courfeyrac set him up on that date.

“He’s a rugby-player himself, but yeah, hockey is his main hobby, and he seems interested in boxing as well, so I thought ‘he’d be perfect for Grantaire’, I mean, if nothing else they could talk about that.”

No. _Two dates._

Something twists uncomfortably in Enjolras’ stomach.

“Who’s he with?” he asks. He asks casually. Very casually. Extremely casual. He is the epitome of casual.

Courfeyrac waves a hand like it doesn’t matter. “Just this friend of mine. His name is Peter, he’s really great.”

“You set him up on another date?” the words are not gritted out between clenched teeth. It’s just that he can feel a cough coming, and it would be embarrassing to cough in the middle of a sentence, so he’s tensing up a bit. That’s why.

Courfeyrac blinks, wide-eyed and innocent. “Yes. It’d be good for him.” And then he… it’s not a glare. He doesn’t glare at Enjolras. He isn’t taking a side against Enjolras. But he is… challenging, maybe. “Don’t you think that’d be good for him?”

“Sure,” Enjolras mumbles, because it’s a silly notion, that going on a date with some stranger, or even with someone you know, could somehow fix all problems, it’s silly and romantic and foolish, and did he mention silly. “We’ll see how long it lasts, though.”

Courfeyrac frowns.

Grantaire gets home that same night with a black eye, and mutters _‘sorry, Peter’s great, his friends are wankers’,_ and Courfeyrac almost, almost admits defeat.

No, that’s a lie. He’s not even halfway done.

“Maria!” he shows Grantaire her photograph in the middle of the café, in the middle of the _meeting,_ and Enjolras wants to strangle him.

“What about her?” Combeferre asks. Courfeyrac holds his phone out for them to see.

“Isn’t she pretty?” he asks, directed at Grantaire, and Enjolras has to concede that she is, if one is into slight blondes with blue eyes. She looks sort of haughty though. Enjolras doesn’t like her. On principle. Courfeyrac just hasn’t mentioned her before, and he usually talks, at great length, about everyone he meets. She can’t be very special if he’s never heard her mentioned before.

Grantaire takes one look at the photograph, and is that panic in his eyes? “No thanks,” he mutters, and Courfeyrac frowns, looking at his phone, looking at Grantaire, looking back at his phone, then slowly raising his eyes to Enjolras, before looking back at his phone again.

“Ooooh,” he says. Enjolras wants to ask, what? What is it? But he’s really not interested in Courfeyrac’s odd-ball friends or in Grantaire’s dating life (especially not the latter), so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Yeah,” Grantaire mutters. He’s very resolutely not looking at Enjolras, and he notices, because Grantaire is usually always looking at him.

“André!” Courfeyrac shouts then. “André is _perfect_.”

Grantaire groans a little, but concedes, and Enjolras almost wants to make a biting remark about how _sure, third time’s the charm,_ but he doesn’t, because this is a meeting and they have poultry to defend, and there are much more important things at stake than the state of Grantaire’s love-life.

However, as it turns out, André really _is_ perfect.

And it means Grantaire is hardly around anymore. Oh, he’s still there, still sitting in on meetings and shooting down some of his suggestions and picking arguments apart like they’re made of paper, thin and see-through when held up against the light. But then he’ll also be _texting,_ and really, up until now Enjolras wasn’t even sure if Grantaire knew how a phone worked, because he never used his (never picked up or answered messages of any kind), but now it’s always nearby, fingers moving over the keyboard, and he keeps _smiling_ at the damn device and Enjolras wants to take it and throw it out the window, because Grantaire should be focusing really, he can’t just start ignoring it when Enjolras is talking to him, is defending himself, just because he got a text from his bo… his boyf… his…. _just because he got a text from André!_

“Are you even listening to me?” he demands when Grantaire actually snorts at something on the screen, and it feels too much like he’s mocking what Enjolras is saying, except that would actually be nice, that would be _normal_ , and oh god, it is a sickening thought when he realises that _he isn’t used to seeing Grantaire smile this much._

Fuck.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbles, and looks sheepish, though still distracted and Enjolras is torn between wanting to demand Grantaire give him his phone for the rest of the meeting like he’s some strict teacher scolding a kid, and apologising right back, because he’s probably being rude, and Grantaire is very beautiful when he smiles, and Enjolras suddenly doesn’t want it to stop, even if he’s smiling because of stupid André.

Oh. Okay.

This might be turning into a problem.

“This isn’t a problem,” Enjolras denies when Combeferre approaches him two days later.

“Enjolras, I’m your friend,” Combeferre says, and that is true, well done, A+ for noticing. Oh, he’s being snappy at Combeferre now. He really needs to get a grip. “Your best friend.” True. “And I notice these things.” Combeferre has always been good at noticing the subtle things, that’s why he’s so invaluable. “And I know something that Grantaire is doing is bothering you.”

He falters, because that wording…

“It’s not Grantaire,” he insists.

Combeferre sighs. “I know its Grantaire. I know he would never _intentionally_ do anything, but did he say or do anything to make you this uncomfortable? Because I think you should talk to him.”

“Grantaire didn’t do anything,” Enjolras repeats, because it’s the truth, Grantaire hasn’t done anything, except smile foolishly at his phone whenever he got a text (Grantaire never gets texts, and even if he does, he never answers them, he’s notorious for it in fact, if you want to get a hold of Grantaire you have to stand underneath his window and shout at him to come down). Grantaire hasn’t  
done anything.

“You can tell me, Enjolras, and even if you don’t want to, this is probably just a misunderstanding.”

“There is no misunderstanding.” There isn’t. What is there to misunderstand? Grantaire is dating André. Grantaire is dating André, and not Enjolras.

He doesn’t have a problem with that. At all. Why should he? Grantaire’s silly crush had made him uncomfortable, because obviously it could never be returned, so it’s a good thing, that Grantaire is moving on, he’s very happy that Grantaire is happy, because all he wants is for Grantaire to be happy, and keep smiling so widely and… and…

Combeferre is looking at him weirdly. Enjolras wonders if he’s turning a funny colour. It’s possible that he’s blushing.

“Look, I’ve been distracted,” he says then. “It’s not a big deal, I’ll get back on track. And it really isn’t Grantaire’s fault, we shouldn’t go around blaming him for everything.”

“You’re usually the first in line,” Combeferre says and looks like he immediately regrets it. “I really didn’t mean it like that.”

“Freudian slip?” fuck, could he just punch Enjolras instead? That would hurt less.

“NO, really, seriously. You know I hate Freud. I just meant that, you’re been… maybe a little hard on him lately. And he’s been less… well, _him_ , around you. That’s why I wondered if he’d done something, and you were angry and he was feeling ashamed, and I really think you should talk it out, because it’s obviously bothering you, and I know how much Grantaire’s opinion matters to you.”

“Grantaire’s opinion doesn’t matter to me!” he yells the last bit just as the door to the flat opens, and its Jehan and Courfeyrac and Joly and Grantaire.

Of course it fucking is.

“Right,” Grantaire’s face is devoid of any emotion. “I should probably leave.”

Enjolras is gaping at the spot Grantaire seemed to disappear from, and so is Combeferre, and Jehan is gaping at Enjolras and Joly is gaping while his eyes flicker back and forth between everyone and Courfeyrac is gaping until his mouth snaps shut and he turns around and yells. “GRANTAIRE!” but in the end its Jehan who runs after him, and Enjolras snaps out of it when Combeferre nudges him and promptly follows.

He’s expecting Grantaire to avoid him after that, but while they don’t find him right after (and Enjolras may lie sleepless over that fact and curse Grantaire for not picking up his phone, he _knows_ he’s using it now, at least he is when it’s André, but not for anyone else apparently), he does show up at the next meeting.

“I’m sorry!” he ends up nearly shouting, and Grantaire smirks slightly and then _shrugs._

“Nothing I didn’t know already,” he says, and Enjolras looks at him like a fish out of water.

“That’s not true,” he says. “I didn’t mean it. Your opinion matters, Grantaire, of course it does. It wouldn’t get me so riled up if it didn’t.”

The smile this time is actually genuine. And it’s directed at him.

It’s such a horrible cliché that it makes Enjolras want to stab his own eyes out, but that’s the moment that he _knows,_ butterflies fluttering in his stomach and palms getting sweaty because Grantaire is still smiling softly as he sits down and starts talking to Joly, and that’s the moment he realises he’s in love with Grantaire and possibly has been for a while, and that it really fucking bothers him that this is the only time he can remember making Grantaire smile like that.

Bother isn’t the right word. It tears at him, like someone is ripping out his heart piece by piece, and fuck, he’s _really, really_ in love with Grantaire and he needs to sit down.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks worriedly.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he says, and that’s probably unfortunate, only it’s not so much that he’s in love with Grantaire, it’s that he’s in love with Grantaire and _he’s realised it too fucking late._

Grantaire phone beeps, and his face lights up, and Enjolras just really hates the whole world.

“Sorry, gotta dash,” he says, and Courfeyrac makes an ‘oooh’ sound and Grantaire _blushes_ , and Enjolras wants to set something on fire. Also Combeferre is staring at him like someone has just hit him over the head with a brick. Like _Enjolras_ has just hit him over the head with a brick.

“Fucking hell,” Combeferre says, and Combeferre never swears, so this means that he also understands the severity of this situation. Good.

It also means that he invades Enjolras’ flat later that afternoon, mainly to pace while Enjolras lies on his bed, on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to make the vision of Grantaire smiling at him _go away._

“Okay, we just have to approach this logically,” Combeferre says. “This is a problem with a solution just like any other, and if we see it like that, then we can fix it.”

Enjolras lifts his head. “Fix it? There isn’t really anything to fix, is there? Also, we can’t be focusing on this. My petty problems does not come before the movement, we’re trying to achieve something here, you know the drill, I talk about this a lot, you were there when Marius came bursting in all red-faced and swooning, Oh god, I am such a hypocrite, why doesn’t Grantaire hate me?”

“You’re panicking,” Combeferre stops and stares at him. “You’re actually panicking.”

“I know.”

“Because you’re in love with Grantaire, who is currently happily dating someone else.”

_“I know, you don’t have to say that!”_

“I’ve come into a parallel-universe, I don’t have a plan for this, Enjolras!”

“You think I do??” he sits up fully then. “Do you think I ever realised, do you think I would have dismissed him like that if I’d realised sooner, if I’d realised before… _this is all Courfeyrac’s fault!”_

Combeferre’s eyes wide. “Oh, it kind of is!”

He buries his face in his hands. “Make it stop.”

“I’m… not sure how.”

“You’re a doctor, think of something.”

“Being in love isn’t actually a medical condition, Enjolras.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s fatal.”

“You’re being extremely dramatic, this is very unlike you.”

Enjolras breathes in deeply. “I’m going to ignore it,” he says then. “Grantaire is happy with someone else, and I can’t just barge in and ruin that, that’s really, really, really not fair to him. He has such a hard time keeping a hold of good things. So I’ll just suck it up.”

Combeferre frowns. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean… Grantaire’s been in love with you for years. Don’t you think he’d want to know?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “He wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair, and it’d make things even more awkward, he’d start _avoiding me_ , Combeferre.”

“Maybe that would be better?”

He tries to imagine that, tries to imagine hardly ever seeing Grantaire, letting him slip away like sand between his fingers, and _it hurts_.

“It wouldn’t,” he says to Combeferre, who’s still looking hesitant.

“And what if he starts bringing André to meetings?”

“I’ll bear it,” Enjolras says, because he can do that. He can. He absolutely can.

He absolutely fucking _can’t._

“If you could maybe stop sucking faces with your friend there for two seconds, you did promise to bring the cake in,” he tells Grantaire a week later at Cosette’s birthday party, and Grantaire looks put-out at his tone, but thankfully pulls away and does as he’s told.

Leaving Enjolras alone with André. He’s just about to flee when the man says, “So, you’re Enjolras,” and it sounds almost like a challenge, so he stops and turns around instead.

“I am,” he says. “It’s… nice to finally meet you.”

André smiles widely at him. André has brown short hair and sharp cheekbones and tattoos down his arms, floral patterns around a skull and he looks exactly like someone Grantaire would date, if Enjolras had ever entertained thoughts of who Grantaire might date.

Which he hadn’t. Which, in hindsight, had been stupid. Because it may have made him realise something _very important_ sooner.

“You too,” André says, and he sounds pleasant. Fuck. He actually sounds nice. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Well, you’re competition, I tend to hang onto facts about you, whether I want to or not.”

He falters. “Um… what?”

“Grantaire’s in love with you,” André cocks his head to the side. “I’m not doing it to be clingy or anything, but yeah, doesn’t make it easier when you’re falling for someone whose been in love with someone else for so long. You’re not even in it, but it still feels like a competition, and the best I have is I train with him at the fencing club, really. Not that this is a competition. It’s just not easy.”

“I’m…” is the floor titled, he feels off-kilter, unbalanced, fuck, what the hell is happening? “As you said,” he mumbles. “There isn’t a competition.”

“I’m not saying there should be,” André has an easy smile and sparkling eyes, and Enjolras thinks that he could almost be amiable towards the fellow. If he didn’t currently loathe him with every fibre of his being. On principle, purely. Fuck. Emotions suck. “I’m just… go easy on him, yeah? I know you don’t owe him anything, I’m not being like that, but we can’t help who we love. And he’s trying really hard to get over you, but I know he still wants to be your friend, and I really like him, so I want what’s best for him.”

“Yeah. No,” Enjolras mumbles. “No, I mean, sure, I’m… yes. I’m not angry with Grantaire, I realise that he can’t… we can’t help our feelings. I don’t resent him for them.” Resentment is the last emotion he has in relation to that.

André smiles. “Good,” he says, and walks away, and Enjolras leans against the wall for a while, trying to process everything that was just said.

“I didn’t know you could fence,” is what he ends up saying to Grantaire when he approaches him later in the evening, because it seems like the only sensible thing to say. Grantaire frowns.

“Fence?”

“Yes, fence. Fencing.”

“I’ve been doing that for years.”

“You never mention it.”

Grantaire sends him an odd look. “Yes, I do. I mean, I don’t brag and I haven’t invited you guys to any matches or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it a good couple of times? Remember when I had that limp for a while? That big bruise on my shoulder last summer? I kept complaining that my opponent actually cheated.”

Enjolras’ mouth feels too dry. “I thought that was… boxing.”

Grantaire looks amused. “I box too, yes, very good.”

“Anything, um… anything else I should be aware of?”

“Um, no?”

Right, because he doesn’t have a first-way glance into Grantaire’s world. He doesn’t have a VIP-card, a guided tour. He doesn’t get to have that. André gets to have that.

“You’re sulking on my birthday, that’s not nice,” Cosette will inform him later, but Enjolras really can’t help it. He continues to sulk, if just for the rest of the night.

Okay, the rest of the week.

It might be two weeks, two weeks of never looking Grantaire quite in the eyes, two weeks of irrationally hating a man he hardly knows, two weeks of bus-drives and waiting-time spent daydreaming about red lips and what those lips could be wrapped around, and _no he is not getting an erection on the bus, fucking hell._ This is the _worst_. He wonders how the hell Grantaire ever coped. He wonders why he didn’t just escape it sooner.

Of course he knows why. Because as painful as it is, Enjolras finds that he absolutely lives in those moments where Grantaire is sitting near him, that he breathes easier when he can hear the man laugh or smile, that thinking about him is as calming as it is frustrating.

And it would be so much easier to deal with if Grantaire wasn’t being so… not-Grantaire. Also known as, the Grantaire who isn’t in love with Enjolras anymore, because that’s what André had said, _he’s trying to get over you_ , and if anyone would know currently it would be _André_ , wouldn’t it. It’s irrational and selfish, and in its own way even kind of cruel, but he absolutely hates that Grantaire is paying him less attention, that it’s the arms of another and not thoughts of him that Grantaire goes home to, that he’s telling funny stories about the customers who comes into André’s tattoo-parlour, that he skips meetings to have dates and kiss André and fall into bed with André, and Enjolras tries to stop his brain there, but then he starts imagining hands that aren’t his running over Grantaire’s skin, imagines mouths searing and pleas, and fuck if he doesn’t hate the both of them, just a little bit in those moments.

He sits awake and researches long into the night, and doesn’t raise his voice more than is necessary, more than he usually does, when he and Grantaire gets into another argument, because it would be so easy wouldn’t it, so easy to just be angry with him, to let all the hurt well up, but Grantaire has loved him for years and _he’s_ never done that, never intentionally, never, and Enjolras just has to imagine the look on Grantaire’s face the few times in the past when he’d snapped, before he realised how much the other man’s well-being fucking mattered to him, and he feels sick to his stomach and starts hating himself just a little bit.

It doesn’t make it easier for him, but at least he’s trying to make it easier for Grantaire. Because Grantaire deserves that.

It really isn’t easier when they’re out celebrating a farm successfully broken into, pictures released in the news from an ‘anonymous source’, followed swiftly by an absolutely outrage from the general populace, and it’s suddenly three in the morning and Grantaire is so drunk he can barely see straight and Enjolras is the only one left.

“You okay there?” the bartender asks, and Enjolras nods, even as Grantaire leans heavily on him, one arm slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll get him home,” he says, trying to support Grantaire who immediately gets on his feet and wraps his arms firmly around Enjolras.

No matter how drunk he is, Grantaire never does more than that: he’s seen him kiss Jehan and Bahorel and even Bossuet once, when drunk, nuzzle up to them as they laughed, but with Enjolras and most others, it’s never more invasive than a kind of clingy hug.

“You’re really fucking awesome,” he slurs, and Enjolras realises it’s a long time since he’s seen Grantaire this drunk. And that’s… that’s probably a good sign. He might hate André a little less for that.

“You too,” he says as he bundles the other man into a taxi, crawling in beside him. Grantaire snickers.

“Yeah, sure you think so.”

“I do.”

“Mhmmm,” Grantaire leans his head on his shoulder. “You think I’m annoying.”

“You’re very annoying,” _I still love you._

“You’re… you’ve… vuvuv… too many v’s. Um.”

“Grantaire?”

“You’re _very_ annoying as well, did you know that? Your hair is perfect.”

“We’re at your flat,” Enjolras says then, because they are, and he somehow gets Grantaire up the many flights of stairs, the elevator not working, and even gets a glass of water inside him, before the man promptly collapses on his bed. Enjolras takes his shoes off.

“Are you undressing me?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Just your shoes. Move over, get under the blanket.”

“Thank,” Grantaire slurs, wrapping himself up like a burrito. “Love you.”

Enjolras breath hitches in his throat.

“Love you too,” he says. Grantaire is already asleep.

Enjolras goes home and sits with the window open, breathing in the cool night-air and pressing sharp fingernails into his palms to keep from crying. He doesn’t get much sleep that night.

The next morning, Grantaire is standing outside of his flat, angrily pressing the door-bell.

“R,” Enjolras says as he opens the door, immediately getting pushed aside as Grantaire steps in. “Won’t you come in,” he sarcastically quips, most definitely not focusing on the fact that Grantaire smells like paint and lavender and cinnamon.

“Are you angry with me?” he asks, and he sounds defensive and his arms are crossed over his chest and he’s glaring, but he’s also moving his weight from one foot to another, a sure sign of how unsure he is, and Enjolras heart aches.

“No, of course not, why would I be?”

“Has Joly managed to convince you that I’m dying?”

“What?”

“You’ve been treating me like I’m made of glass for the past two months,” Grantaire hisses. “You don’t get upset with me, you say odd things that I don’t even realise are compliments until later that night when I wonder about them again, you took me home and tucked me into bed last night!”

“You were dead on your feet, I couldn’t just leave you there,” Enjolras protests. Does Grantaire really think he would ever leave him like that?

If Grantaire wanted, he’d never leave him at all.

“Did I do something?” Grantaire asks.

“No,” Enjolras says. _Yes,_ Enjolras thinks. _You stopped loving me, and its my own fault._

“Would you quit it then? I’m not some fragile little thing!”

“I don’t think you are!”

“Then why are you treating me so…”

“What, so friendly?” he very nearly shouts. “Maybe it’s because we’re friends? Because I enjoy your company? Because I can actually be nice to people!”

Grantaire blinks in shock. “You want to be friends,” he says.

“I… rather thought we already were.”

“We’re friends,” Grantaire says. “But we’re not friends like you and Courf and Combeferre are friends. We’re not friends like Bahorel and I are friends. We’re shout-y friends. And even if it could still be more… well, friendly, I… well… certain... _things_ got in the way of that, and I know that that’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Enjolras breaks in, because he can’t bear to hear Grantaire say that. “I let… certain things get in the way of that as well.”

“I’m happy to take the blame, you don’t have to go all martyr on me,” Grantaire says, smirking, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not. I’m… we’re friends. I value your friendship a lot. More than you know.”

Grantaire looks astonished. “Um… okay. That’s… thank-you. That’s nice to hear.” He frowns then. “You don’t look happy. Uh, did I say something? Do you want me to leave?”

“I’m…” it’s at the tip of his tongue. _I love you. I love you so much I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s driving me insane._

“I’m just a little tired,” he says. “You must be too.”

“Thanks, anyway, for getting me home last night,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras whispers _anytime_ when the door closes behind him.

He coops himself up inside his flat for the rest of the day, working until he falls asleep on top of a pile of flyers. He wakes up with a sore neck and back, and a want to murder someone.

He texts _I feel like I’m starting to see the merits of being drunk,_ to Courfeyrac and six minutes and twenty-eight seconds later the man is pounding on his door.

“Are you fucking drunk?” Courfeyrac demands, and Enjolras sighs.

“No, but it’s tempting.”

“What’s happening?!” he looks really worried, and Enjolras regrets not telling him, he’s his best friend after all, and he’s been wondering at the change in dynamics as well, but he hadn’t guessed like Combeferre had guessed, and Enjolras is just too bad at confessions and seeking advice, so he very deliberately hadn’t told anyone else. Not even Courfeyrac.

“I’m in love with Grantaire,” he says. Breathes. Lives.

Courfeyrac lets out a whoop of joy and envelops him in a hug that is ready to crush his bones and then pulls away to shake his hand. Enjolras scowls at him.

“I knew it!” Courfeyrac shouts. “I knew it, oh, I am such a genius, I knew it!”

“For crying out loud,” Enjolras mumbles. And then. “If you knew it, then why the hell would you set him up with other people?!”

“So that you would realise the true extent of your feelings,” he grabs hold of Enjolras shoulders, looking him deep in the eye. “Listen to me, young Skywalker,” he says and Enjolras contemplates punching that pretty face. “This is your chance. You must rise up like the rebels rose up against the Empire and destroyed the Death Star!”

“Please stop talking about Star Wars,” Enjolras says. Such an urge to punch. “And I fail to see how you’ve given me any sort of chance. Grantaire is happy with André.”

“Really,” Courfeyrac. “That’s odd. Because to my knowledge, they broke up last night.”

“What?”

“Go get him tiger!”

“I want to cry at how stupid you sound.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “C’mon, just… just tell him? I’ll even drive you.”

His heart is beating too fast and he’s sure he’s gone pale. “I can’t,” he whispers his eyes wide. “No, I can’t.”

“Of course you can!”

“No. They’ve hardly been broken up a day, isn’t there some sort of etiquette on this nonsense? And no, no, I don’t care about that, I can’t, I just can’t, I can’t do that to him.”

“Do what to him?”

“It’s not fair,” Enjolras pulls away from his friends grasp. “Just because it didn’t work out with André doesn’t mean he should be with me. He’s been working to _get over me,_ he should have that chance. I can’t just come barging in now, when he’s vulnerable… especially not now when he’s vulnerable. He deserves better than that, and I can’t give it to him.”

Courfeyrac looks astonished. “You… I can’t believe you. You’re actually giving up before you’ve even started. Because you’re s _cared_.”

“I’m not scared!”

“You are,” Courfeyrac folds his arms over his chests. “Alright. I’ll leave you to keep moping then. Call me if you change your mind.” His friend slams the door as he leaves. Enjolras feels pitiful and hateful and so confused. He’s aching to go to Grantaire. Aching to call Courfeyrac and make him go with him, because he is turning into a ten year-old who needs his hand held.

But he doesn’t. Not that he really gets a chance to.

Four hours later, Grantaire is back on his door-step.

“Salt,” the man says. “And eggs. I need some salt and some… eggs.”

Enjolras blinks. “I have salt and eggs.”

“Brilliant. Can I have some?”

“Sure.” Bahorel lives right next to Grantaire. Éponine lives closer. Combeferre lives closer. Why is he _here_ for fucking salt and eggs?

The shops are still open. The shops are closer than Enjolras.

Why the hell would he ask Enjolras for salt and eggs? Does Enjolras somehow have the best salt and eggs?

What is happening?

“Do you want coffee?” he asks, and his voice is shaking slightly. Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, thanks, that’d be great if you don’t mind,” he sits down on the sofa like he belongs there, and Enjolras thinks _yes_ and has to fight the urge to crawl into his lap and just curl up there, so he flees into the kitchen to make fucking coffee instead.

He almost spills it, and dammit, why the hell is he so nervous?

Oh right, Grantaire is on his sofa. A very single and very composed Grantaire, which is… making him flustered.

“Here,” Enjolras says, handing him his cup. Grantaire takes one sip and then puts it on the coffee-table by the sofa.

“I didn’t actually come here for salt and eggs,” he says. Enjolras swallows past the lump in his throat.

“No?” well, he could have figured.

“Courfeyrac called me.”

Enjolras tenses. “Courfeyrac is having ideas,” he says, and it’s defensive: he doesn’t expect Grantaire’s face to fall, all assurance that was there before away in the blink of an eye.

“Right,” he mumbles. “Oh fuck. No, I’m sorry. Fuck, I can’t believe I was so stupid, I’ll… I’ll leave,” he gets up from the sofa so fast he knocks over the coffee, and he curses as it spills over the carpet and his trousers, leaning down to pick up the cup again, but Enjolras grabs his arm and makes him stay upright.

“Grantaire,” he says. “Did you come here to tell me something?”

He looks so frightened, and Enjolras wants to kiss it away, wants to yell at anyone putting that expression on his Grantaire’s face, but _he’s_ the one doing it, and yeah, definitely back to hating himself.

“It’s not important,” Grantaire gets out.

“Everything you say is important to me,” Enjolras says. “If you didn’t come here to tell me anything, did you come here to ask a question?”

“I’m not sure,” Grantaire’s voice is still too small, so hesitant, and he’s skirting around the subject, not daring to hope that they’re talking about the same thing.

“Tell me what Courfeyrac said.”

Grantaire lifts his chin a little, looking defiant though still scared. “He said that you… that you were in… he said you had feelings for me, and that’s why you’ve been acting weird. He said I should get to you, because you were currently in hiding.”

“Do you have a question now?”

Grantaire looks away. “Was he telling the truth?”

“I’ve never known Courfeyrac to lie.”

“Oh fucking hell!” Grantaire pulls away from him sharply: his eyes are glistening, like he’s close to spilling tears. “That’s not a fucking answer!”

“Why did you break up with André?”

“You _dick,”_ Grantaire shoves at him, not hard, out of frustration more than anger. Enjolras’ heart is beating too fast. “I broke up with André because he said he was falling in love with me, and I’m still fucking in love with you, and he knew, and it was a mess, and _why can’t you just give me an answer!”_

“I’m not sure of the question,” he’s grinning like a madman now, he can’t help it, only Grantaire just said that he was in love with him. “But I love you, if that’s what you wanted to hear.”

 _“You asshole!”_ Grantaire shouts, though it seems more like a reflex: the poor guy seems absolutely shell-shocked. “Why didn’t you fucking just… you can’t just say it like that… why wouldn’t you _tell me_.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?!”

“Of course I am,” Enjolras frowns. “You’re mad at me, I’m okay with you being mad at me, I’m very sorry, can I kiss you now?”

“No you fucking can’t!”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t realise I loved you until you were already with someone else,” he says then. “It burned me up inside, but I kept quiet because I didn’t want to be that guy. I didn’t want to feel entitled to you: I love you. I don’t own you. And I didn’t want to be the cause of any disruption if you were happy. You seemed happy. I hated that you were with him, but I loved how happy he made you. If I can make you half as happy I’ll have achieved more than I ever thought possible.”

“You _wanker_ ,” Grantaire says to him.

Enjolras smiles. “I love you.”

“Oh, god. I actually _hate you!”_

“Don’t say that… are you crying?”

“If I am it’s your fault!” but he’s smiling now. “I love you,” he says.

“I know,” Enjolras says, reaching out to pull him closer.

“Did you just quote Star Wars at me?”

“If you tell Courfeyrac, you are a dead man.”

Grantaire leans in close. “I’ll keep quiet if you kiss me.”

Enjolras thinks that’s rather unfair, Grantaire demanding kisses when he’d been the one to deny requests for them earlier, but this is… he didn’t think this was going to happen. He didn’t think he was going to have this. So he obliges the request, is more than happy to, in fact. Grantaire’s lips are warm and soft, softer than he’d imagined and okay, he’d imagined _a lot._ He wonders if Grantaire still has the taste of anyone else on his tongue: he won’t have when Enjolras is done with him. And true enough, Grantaire is breathless and still making needy noises by the time Enjolras pulls away from him again.

“Do you still want salt and eggs?” he asks, grinning.

“No, I’m good,” Grantaire mumbles, eyes falling closed when Enjolras starts kissing his way across his face. “But um, I do have a cache of illegal fireworks. Help me get rid of them?”

Enjolras pulls away. “And what will you give me in return?”

Grantaire hesitates. “What do you want?”

That’s a good question. He wants Grantaire. Wants him to stay right where he is now. Wants him to laugh and smile and rile him up and kiss him, just like now.

“Let me come see one of your fencing-matches,” he says then, and Grantaire looks surprised, but… but yes, this is what he wants.

“Um. Okay. I have one in a week or so, I think.”

Enjolras looks at him softly. “Good.”

“Good,” Grantaire repeats back to him.

“Why do you have a cache of illegal fireworks?”

“… I think that’s a story for another time.”

Enjolras laughs. And kisses him again.

 

 

“I planned that, you know,” Courfeyrac will tell Combeferre the next day when Enjolras and Grantaire show up at the meeting hand-in-hand and Combeferre will roll his eyes at him, but his smile will be pleased.

 

 

 


End file.
